


The Melancholic One

by venea_taur



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Depression, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 23:23:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13305540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venea_taur/pseuds/venea_taur
Summary: Glancing at the Musketeers might give one the impression that it's Athos who sinks the lowest but that's not the case once you take a deeper look.





	1. The Melancholic One

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted a while ago on fanfiction.net but now I've written a second piece, so I'm posting the first one here along with the follow up.

Anyone who saw the Inseparables, who met and talked with them for any length of time would have easily pegged Athos for the melancholic one. If the men were honest, he did have his turns, his bouts with a darkness that only wine made him forget about and they were sure to keep him close. It was a feeling that they didn’t understand well, except for one, who knew the feeling of oppressing darkness all too well. In truth, it was Aramis they had to look out for. Athos had his bad days that sometimes stretched into a week or longer, but Aramis hid his moods. Porthos and Athos chalked it up to Savoy as they’d only really gotten to know him after that disastrous mission. Treville, however, warned them one day, as he’d known the marksman the longest in the regiment, that Aramis, contrary to his outward demeanor, was often slightly melancholic and sometimes dipped even lower into absolute darkness. Savoy only served to make it worse and give him little reason to hide his natural tendencies.

Only four people in all of Paris knew of his moods and each respected him enough to never question him openly, but understood well enough to know when he wasn’t doing well. D’Artagnan, their newest companion, was not one of these people. It wasn’t so much a matter of trust as it was something they didn’t talk about. They simply stepped in to offer whatever they had learned Aramis needed. It was done without questioning or prodding of his needs.

Thus, it was quite the surprise to D’Artagnan to find Aramis sitting at the garrison’s table in the courtyard, cleaning his pistols without any of his usual vigor. Porthos sat next to him, cleaning a pistol as well, and Athos was opposite, cleaning and sharpening his sword. There was a silence that reigned over the table and seeped out, it seemed, into the courtyard. There were the usual noises, but D’Artagnan felt, almost, as if he’d stepped into a church given the silence and the seeming demand for it. It was in stark contrast to the absolutely perfect day. The sun was out, the sky was finally clear after days of rain, and the temperature was warm, but not so much that they would be sweating in their leathers. It called for more life than was currently in the air.

“Athos, Porthos, Aramis,” he said, working as much happiness into his voice as he could manage, though he felt as if he were breaking a rule by doing so.

“D’Artagnan,” Porthos returned the greeting while Athos gave him his customary head nod. Aramis might have glanced up briefly, but he couldn’t be sure. Regardless, he remained focused on slowly, almost lethargically cleaning the pistol in hand.

“What’s on the agenda for the day?” He hoped it wasn’t guard duty today. Though it was a lovely day, he wasn’t in the mood to stand in one place for hours.

“Nothing,” Athos answered. “Treville has given us the day off.”

“Really?” He didn’t think they were given days off. In the two odd months he’d been in Paris, working towards earning a commission, he hadn’t seen them take a day off. A few hours here and there, perhaps an afternoon or a morning for mass, but nothing like an entire day. Perhaps that was the reason for the sullen mood. These were men of action, after all, especially Aramis. D’Artagnan didn’t expect him to react well to a day of idleness.

“How will you spend it then?”

“Once our weapons are clean, we will decide,” Athos said. D’Artagnan didn’t want to sit and clean his weapons, but he could read the unspoken command to do so. For nearly an hour, he patiently cleaned his weapons, doing his best to move in calm, deliberate motions. In the end, he was finished before the others, but forced himself to keep his seat next to Athos and not stare at the others. He’d never experienced such silence before amongst these men.

“Athos,” he finally said. Strangely, the taciturn man seemed the most approachable right now. He’d certainly uttered more words than the others this morning.

Athos wordlessly looked at him.

“Go ahead, Athos,” Aramis said. His voice was low and empty.

“Are you sure?”

“He’s been very patient.” Normally, there would’ve been at least a crack of a smile or a lilt to his voice.

Perhaps Aramis wasn’t feeling well and they were trying to keep things calm and quiet.

“Is he ill,” he asked quietly.

“Let’s go. A little sparring will be good for you.” Athos ignored his question. They all did, in fact. He decided to let it go, for now.

And it was easy to do so with Athos putting him through his paces. Over the past couple months, he noticed that every so often the master swordsman would step up his intensity. It wasn’t a matter of going easy on him, but of teaching him, training him to pace himself for the length of a sword fight as well as the ferocity. He’d often seen Athos, Aramis, and Porthos duel for long stretches, pacing each other to withstand the stretches and intensity of fighting they might encounter with any type of enemy they would face on duty. Since his first duel with the three, the one where he challenged Athos to the death, he hadn’t again fought all three. One of these days, though…

They stopped when Athos disarmed him for the third time. As much as he wanted to continue, he knew the growing frustration would only hinder his skills. That had been proven too many times over the weeks.

“Where’s Aramis,” he asked taking a seat at the table with Athos and Porthos.

“Up in his room,” Porthos answered.

“Is he alright?”

“Perhaps we should go for a ride today,” Athos said. “We’ve not spent much time out of Paris lately. It would be good for us to spend an afternoon in the countryside, perhaps near the river.”

“I’ll ask Serge to pack some food for us,” Porthos said without pause.

“Good, I’ll get Aramis.”

“A picnic?” D’Artagnan wasn’t sure he could believe what he was hearing. It was all rather domestic and he was sure they were actively ignoring him. “What’s going on?”

“Why don’t you go and let Treville know that we’re going out for the afternoon, then meet us down in the stable,” Athos said.

“Will one of you let _me_ know what’s going on?”

“Let Treville know and meet us in the stable,” Athos repeated. D’Artagnan huffed and walked away. It was clear they weren’t going to let him know what was going on. They hadn’t even answered a single question about Aramis. He knew he was new to the group and didn’t expect to be a part to all of their secrets, but surely he deserved some simple word on Aramis’ wellbeing.

Letting Treville know was easy and mostly a note of the respect they had for the man as there was no need on their day off to inform him of their movements. Still, he seemed pleased to know they were riding out and remarked that it would be good for Aramis. He didn’t bother to ask the Captain what he meant as he knew that Treville wouldn’t elaborate any more than the others did.

Porthos was waiting on him in the stables. He’d already saddled up his horse and was working on Aramis’. There were a couple packs of food sitting on a hay bale. D’Artagnan set about getting his own horse ready.

They’d just finished with Athos’ horse and distributing the food packs when Athos and Aramis arrived, the latter trailing slightly behind.

“I was beginning to wonder,” Porthos said.

“It took some convincing,” Athos answered. He sounded odd, but D’Artagnan couldn’t place the tone he was hearing. It might have been exasperation or anger, but whatever it was, it was clear he was doing his best to hide it. Aramis didn’t have an answer or even a greeting for them. Instead, he was unusually quiet and reserved still.

“Everything alright, Aramis,” D’Artagnan asked.

“Yes.” Aramis’ answer was low and toneless. It was also an obvious lie.

Athos and Porthos gave each other a knowing look.

“Let’s go before this good weather is lost,” Athos said after a short pause. Nothing was said as they mounted their horses and left the garrison at a slow pace. Athos took the lead through the city streets, where they were forced to move slowly and weave around the many people excited for the sunshine and warm temperatures. Worried and clueless, D’Artagnan settled into the rear of the group, observing as Porthos wordlessly positioned himself close behind Aramis.

Something was seriously wrong. Perhaps Aramis had received some bad news, but he couldn’t recall any messengers coming to the garrison for the man. It couldn’t be illness, or nothing serious at least. Whatever it was, he resolved himself to be patient or at least try. Athos was always on him to be patient and perhaps this was the time to test it out.

He expected that once they were outside the confines of Paris, they'd pick up the pace. It was a bit quicker, but nothing terribly quick. They largely kept to their formation, but Porthos did move up alongside Aramis. The man didn't appear ill or otherwise injured. His posture was as good as ever, but there was a certain lack of energy to his movements. The normal fidgeting and jesting were completely absent. It was un-Aramis-like. In fact, it was much more like Athos.

They rode some distance outside of the city until they reached a grassy area near the river with a few trees for shade. As he dismounted and made sure his horse wouldn’t wander off, D’Artagnan discreetly watched as Aramis did the same. His movements were steady, but slow. He didn't glance up or remark on the beauty of nature, as he so often did in the countryside. D’Artagnan wondered if the man quite realized his surroundings. The other two, though their motions were quicker were just as quiet.

Porthos set about getting the food packs from the horses while Athos pulled out a couple bottles of wine that D’Artagnan hadn’t seen him pack.

“You should eat something, Aramis,” Porthos said. The marksman didn’t acknowledge him, but walked towards the river. Athos and Porthos shared another look.

“At least since yesterday morning, maybe the day before,” Porthos said.

“Since Tuesday then,” Athos said. It was Thursday.

“There wasn’t any time and I didn’t… he…” Uncharacteristically, Porthos couldn’t find his words. None of this made sense to D’Artagnan, but this was the most they’d spoken about Aramis all day so he listened carefully.

“It’s fine, Porthos. I’ll take him something,” Athos said.

“He won’t eat it.”

“Possibly, but I don’t fancy hauling an unconscious Aramis back to Paris.” Athos took some bread and cheese along with a bottle of wine over to where Aramis was by the river. He’d removed his boots and socks and rolled up his pant legs to dangle them over the edge.

There was no conversation between the two men when Athos arrived with the food. Instead, he set down the food and wine in between them, removing his own boots and socks to copy Aramis’ position. When he was settled at last, the two sat in silence, staring down into the water while Athos took occasional sips of wine.

“Porthos,” D’Artagnan started, but he didn’t know where to go. Anything he asked he knew, sensed would be an invasion of privacy.

“He’ll be alright,” Porthos answered. He’d settled down to sit with his back against a tree. D’Artagnan took the words as an invitation to sit next to him. Porthos handed him the second bottle of wine.

“Alright?”

“Well, as alright as he can be.”

“A woman?” He’d been like this after Adele chose the Cardinal over him. It hadn’t been this sort of sullen, silent melancholy, but it was familiar.

“If only,” Porthos said with a dry chuckle.

“What then? News from home?”

“No news.”

D’Artagnan forced himself to allow the pause, kept himself hopeful that Porthos might reveal more of what happened.

“I know you’re dying to know what’s happened, D’Artagnan.” He couldn’t remember another time Porthos had sounded so serious. “The truth is, I don’t know neither does Athos. I doubt even Aramis knows.”

“How?”

“It just happens sometimes.”

D’Artagnan was quiet as he processed what he’d learned. It made a little more sense, but he found puzzling something that had no apparent origins could lead to such melancholy. It didn’t seem right.

“He doesn’t ever say anything. Don’t think he quite knows when it’s coming until it’s too late. Usually Athos and me or the Captain see it, though.”

“And you step in?”

“Something like that. Depends on how bad it is. Sometimes we keep busy working through it, sometimes, like now, we get a day off.”

“And this works?”

“Don’t know. Seems to, though.”

D’Artagnan looked over to where Athos and Aramis sat by the river. Aramis hadn’t altered his gaze at the water, but he did seem to be chewing, so that was something.

“It’s not instantaneous, D’Artagnan,” Porthos said, drawing his attention back to the man. “There’s no pattern or rhythm to it.”

“Surely there’s something to it. How could anyone survive such a life? Has he always been like this?”

“As far as I know, but he doesn’t talk about it. First time it happened, we had no clue. Captain called us in to give us orders and Aramis never showed. We went looking for him and found that he’d been holed up in his room for a few days. We’d been out on an assignment and Aramis was still recovering from a mission gone bad. Thought he was doing better. Turned out, he couldn’t get himself out of bed except to take a piss. We thought he’d died with how still he was laying there, but Treville knew what had happened. He helped us to take care of Aramis. Later, he pulled me and Athos into his office and explained what he knew.”

“How is he…” D’Artagnan let his voice trickle off, not sure how to phrase his question. It seemed disrespectful to ask.

“How is he still a Musketeer?” Porthos again read his mind. “Even the best men have bad days. Doesn’t make him any weaker. Makes him stronger, I always thought.”

Again, he was silent, thinking.

“He doesn’t refuse what we try to do for him,” Porthos said after a while. “I don’t know that it helps, really, but he’s not alone through any of it, not anymore. I think that counts for something. I’ve tried to understand it, but the truth is I’ve never felt like he has, is. A bad day here or there, losing a month’s wages at the table, it’s not the same. Athos comes the closest, for whatever he’s experienced that drives him to drink. He understands somewhat, but I know he doesn’t get it either.”

D’Artagnan looked back to the other two. At some point, Aramis had laid back, his feet still in the water. His eyes weren’t closed though, but his hands were rested on his stomach. He looked content, but D’Artagnan doubted that he was. He wondered what was going through the marksman’s mind. He could only hazard a guess from his own bouts with sadness after the deaths of his parents. It wasn't the same, he knew even though he was still stricken with bouts of sadness.

“I'm sure this is quite the surprise to you. You've done well, especially considering we weren't saying anything really.”

“It is a surprise. I mean, he always seems so happy and carefree.”

“That’s not an act, not all of it. Once you get to know him, really know him, you’ll learn to see the difference.”

“What do I do? How do you know when it’s happening?”

“Just follow our lead for now, D’Artagnan. It wasn't easy for us at the start, but patience and listening, even though he doesn't talk, will guide you.”

D’Artagnan nodded. He observed the group, the men who were his friends and becoming his brothers. Athos kept his silent vigil next to Aramis, but didn't join him in laying down. The marksman was still lying down, but his eyes were hidden by an arm thrown over them, resting in the crook of his elbow. He'd pulled his feet up from the water, leaving his legs bent at the knees. And Porthos kept watch, it seemed, alternatively watching the three of them and staring out into the countryside.

He trusted these men, believed Porthos was right when he said Aramis would be alright. He didn't know them as well as they knew each other, but he sensed that Aramis would return to them even though he’d be lost again. D’Artagnan hoped that he was around long enough to help Aramis as Porthos and Athos did, long enough to recognize the changes and take care of his brother.

 


	2. A Learning Curve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's first experience with a melancholic Aramis without the help of Athos and Porthos is a trial and he does his best to not mess it up.

The first time d’Artagnan was alone with Aramis when the older man entered a period of melancholy he didn’t realize what was happening until mid-afternoon. The two were on light duties still following injuries received on a mission. Athos and Porthos had set out on another mission just a few days before d’Artagnan made his realization.

They had spent the morning sitting in the armory, cleaning weapons. It had been their job for the last couple days because it was easy and they could take breaks when needed to rest their still-healing bodies. During lunch, however, Treville had come down to assign them to guard duty at the palace, which puzzled d’Artagnan. While they wouldn’t be the only Musketeers there, if something did happen neither him nor Aramis were prepared physically to engage in a fight. They would if needed without hesitation, but there would be hell to pay afterwards both from their wounds and their physician.

Even more puzzling was Aramis’ silent acceptance of the assignment. It was as they stood in a hallway, with d’Artagnan reflecting on Aramis’ growing silence over the last couple days, his lethargy, and the weariness in his eyes, that it all connected for the young man. And for a moment, he could not help his panic. Never before had he been alone in helping Aramis through his melancholy. He wondered how long Aramis had been like this. Had it been since Porthos and Athos left? Did he miss Aramis suffering? Did Athos and Porthos try to warn him and he missed a cue?

Theoretically, he knew what to do but not once had he been called on to actually do any of those things. He had, but always with Porthos and Athos leading the way. As he stood there, trying to keep his focus on his job, he made plans for the evening.

When they were relieved of their duty, they walked quietly back to the Garrison. While silence was a requirement of guard duty, now d’Artagnan fought his urge to fill the silence with chatter. Athos and Porthos just let Aramis be, their presence enough. d’Artagnan had learned that a melancholic Aramis preferred silence, speaking only when necessary, even if that meant not at all in a day or more. It was startling at first for him to not hear the man speak for so long and then the coarseness in his voice after so long without speaking.

Back at the Garrison, before they got dinner, d’Artagnan sent word to Constance that he wouldn’t be home tonight. He didn’t have to tell her but he knew that she worried if he didn’t return. Aramis was sitting at the table, sipping at a cup of wine and staring at something in the distance. As d’Artagnan had come to learn, he was likely looking at nothing while his mind churned away at thoughts that he only rarely spoke about.

He tapped Aramis’ shoulder lightly, not wanting to startle the man but also not wanting to break the silence. He winced when Aramis jumped. These were the times when Aramis startled easily, so lost in his own mind that he forgot his surroundings. Aramis looked up at him and d’Artagnan did his best to silently indicate dinner time. Aramis nodded and stood, following d’Artagnan to the mess hall. It was quiet now and d’Artagnan saw the look of relief on Aramis’ face at the lack of people.

They got their food and sat in a corner. Aramis took the corner, letting him scan the room as needed. The ate in silence and slowly. d’Artagnan had made sure that Aramis took enough food. He knew that Aramis had a tendency to eat less when melancholic and that Porthos and Athos were always carefully watching that he took enough and then ate at least more than half. There were two methods they used to keep Aramis eating. The first was the easiest. d’Artagnan simply slowed his own eating. He took smaller bites and paused more between each.

When he was more than halfway done eating and Aramis had yet to even eat half of his own, d’Artagnan started on the second method. This one he was less comfortable with but he knew that Aramis needed to eat, especially because he’d missed the onset of the melancholy. He didn’t remember if Aramis had finished his meals over the last couple days or how much he did eat. He held back a curse because Aramis wouldn’t realize it wasn’t aimed at him. Instead he pulled Aramis’ plate towards him, using the man’s knife to portion off the food he needed to eat.

He pushed the plate back. He heard Aramis sigh but was relieved when he did start to eat from the portioned off food. d’Artagnan didn’t keep track of how long they sat there as Aramis ate. He knew only that the last few bites of his food were room temperature but more important was that Aramis ate what he requested. When d’Artagnan stood without thinking to take his plate to the table for the kitchen staff to clean up, Aramis followed without a pause.

d’Artagnan then led them back outside to the table that sat in the courtyard. The sun was going down but there was still enough light to clean their pistols with. He sat next to Aramis, a half a foot between them and pulled out his pistols to start cleaning them, making sure to move slowly. It took a moment or more before Aramis did the same, his fingers working slowly but in a familiar pattern in cleaning his ornate pistols.

When d’Artagnan was finished with his first pistol, he stood to get a cup of wine for each of them. Aramis looked at him, taking the cup, a word of thanks in his eyes hidden amongst the weariness and sadness to all but those who knew him. They worked until it was dark, their work area lit by lanterns lit quietly by a boy who quietly passed through the courtyard.

d’Artagnan sat in silence as Aramis worked on the detailing on his second pistol. He wished he’d moved slower. He thought he’d gone slowly, but apparently it wasn’t enough. The days of idleness wore on him as he sat waiting for Aramis to finish. He fought fidgeting and tapping.

Eventually, he couldn’t wait any longer, the antsiness running up his legs like lightning. He gave Aramis a look of apology that the man didn’t see and stood. He moved far enough away to not catch Aramis as he went through a series of stretches and drills with his sword, mindful of his healing injuries. He was careful to keep an eye on Aramis, watching for him to be complete. The older man’s cleaning seemed to slow down, though that had to have been a product of his own movements, d’Artagnan thought.

When he saw Aramis finish, carefully putting away the cleaning supplies and drinking the last of the wine in his cup, d’Artagnan stopped, putting away his sword. He grabbed his doublet, which he had discarded during his workout and went to sit with Aramis. He leaned his back against the table, glancing up at the clear night sky. He always had enjoyed looking at the stars and without a moon in the sky, there were more than enough to make him feel insignificant amidst their number.

Then he saw a shiver run through Aramis’ body. Without clouds the night would grow cold. And unlike him, Aramis had been sitting all evening. d’Artagnan stood, letting a hand run against Aramis’ shoulder to catch his attention. The man was staring off into nothing again. d’Artagnan tugged his head in the direction of Aramis’ room, waiting until Aramis stood and started to follow him up.

In Aramis’ room, the older man sat heavily on the bed. d’Artagnan looked between the fireplace and Aramis, deciding which he should take care of first. It was cold in the room but he knew that the longer he let Aramis alone on the bed, the more relaxed the man would get and the harder it would be to get him out of his belts and doublet. He opted to get the fire going, working at it until it started to filled the room with warmth.

He turned from the fire to see Aramis lying on the bed, still clothed and wearing his boots. He was on his side, legs pulled up slightly. d’Artagnan paused to consider how to go about this. He’d seen Athos and Porthos do this effortlessly, silently undressing their brother so that he could rest comfortably.

d’Artagnan started on the boots. He was careful to let Aramis know that it was him there. Judging by the man’s breathing, he wasn’t asleep but his eyes were closed. So what his state of mind was, was a guess for d’Artagnan. After getting the boots off, he moved to the weapons and doublet.

“I’m just going to sit you up for a few minutes,” d’Artagnan said softly. “Okay, ‘Mis?”

He thought the man heard because he didn’t resist d’Artagnan’s movements and perhaps tried to help. Once d’Artagnan was sure that Aramis wouldn’t fall back on the bed, he undid the belts, setting them on a nearby chair until he could take care of them later. Then came the doublet. That was harder but Aramis didn’t resist d’Artagnan’s ministrations.

Once d’Artagnan thought that he’d removed enough of the man’s clothes and accruements to allow him to rest comfortably, he guided Aramis back down on the bed, letting him take whatever position he found comfortable. Aramis returned to his former, slightly curled up position. d’Artagnan grabbed a couple blankets from the trunk at the foot of the bed and laid them over the man. Then he went to take care of the weapons, belts, and doublet. He put each away with care before settling back down in the chair next to the bed.

Though they had never called on him to do so, d’Artagnan knew that either Porthos or Athos stayed with Aramis during the night when he was melancholic. He grabbed a book that was lying on the table and flipped through it, idly reading random pages from the book of poetry.

He had lost track of time and his thoughts when he heard the door creak open. In came Treville with three mugs in hand, steam rising from each.

“Serge prepared his mulled wine for Aramis,” Treville said, setting the mugs on the table.

“I’ll wake him.” d’Artagnan rose to wake Aramis. The man was slow to come to some semblance of alertness even though he hadn’t really been asleep. Treville helped d’Artagnan to get Aramis sitting up. They propped him up between them, holding on to the mug as they encouraged him to drink. It was slow but he did drink the entire contents.

“That will help to warm him up,” Treville said as they eased him back down on the bed, covering him up again. Treville then handed d’Artagnan a mug of the mulled wine, gesturing for him to take a seat. The younger man resumed his old seat and was surprised when Treville set another chair just a foot from him to watch Aramis as he sipped from his cup.

“You’ve done good in looking after him today,” Treville said quietly.

“I wasn’t sure.” d’Artagnan rubbed his fingers around the edge of the mug.

“Porthos and Athos will be proud. You’ve done everything they would. He is in good hands with you.”

“Thanks.”

They fell into silence as they watched Aramis and drank their wine. Then, when Treville stood, taking all three of the now empty mugs in hand, he spoke.

“There is a cot in the corner, folded up. There’s blankets and a pillow too. If you set it up a couple feet from his bed, you’ll be fine.” Treville pointed to the corner where d’Artagnan could now make out the outlines of a cot.

“Thanks.” d’Artagnan nodded.

“You can come get me if you need anything,” Treville said as he left, closing the door quietly. d’Artagnan waited a while longer before getting out the cot. He was sure to be quiet in his movements. He took off his boots, belts, weapons, and doublet. Aramis was asleep now, the exhausted, despondent look only lightly tinging his features. d’Artagnan fed the fire a little more to keep it going before getting into bed. He didn’t know how much he would sleep tonight, but having a bed to lie in would make the night much more comfortable.

He hoped that Aramis would find his way out of the melancholy before Athos and Porthos returned in a few days. They would be tired after their mission and he didn’t want them to have to worry about Aramis in their exhaustion. The longest he’d seen Aramis stay melancholic was a few weeks. That had been rough on them all and he prayed that it wouldn’t be the case this time.

Normally, Aramis would find his way out within a week. He wished that there was something he could do to pull the man out of it, not for Athos’ and Porthos’ sakes but for Aramis’. He had come to know the man over his months as an unofficial Musketeer and would bet his last livre that Aramis hated being like this and worrying his friends.

As he laid there, listening to Aramis’ steady breathing, d’Artagnan planned out the next few days. He knew that Treville would do what he could to give them tasks that would keep Aramis busy and wouldn’t aggravate their healing wounds. The rest was up to him to keep Aramis in his carefully constructed routine. It wouldn’t always be easy but he would do it for Aramis without hesitation. He knew he would fumble along the way and he hoped Aramis would forgive him those mistakes.


End file.
